


Of mulled wine and candlelit baths

by adelaide_rain



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adelaide_rain/pseuds/adelaide_rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames and Arthur have just moved in together. It's the holiday season and they head to the Christmas market for mulled wine, before heading home for a candlelit bath and barebacking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of mulled wine and candlelit baths

Late in December the darkness is thick and heavy like the moon has been smothered by black velvet. It’s a real winter evening of the kind that brings to mind fairy tales and childhood fears of the dark, but the spell is broken by the twinkle of fairy lights reflected in tinsel.

Arthur stands with Eames in the middle of a Christmas market, surrounded by laughter and chatter. The air is thick with the sweet carnival scents of popcorn and doughnuts.

They’re tucked together in a corner, away from the main thoroughfare so that they don’t get jostled. It means that they’re pressed close against each other but Eames is warm and gorgeous and Arthur never minds standing close to him. Each of them has a mug of mulled wine, the steam dancing away. It smells and tastes like December.

“I think we should go on the carousel,” Eames says and Arthur laughs, feeling a little drunk on the wine and the festive atmosphere.

“Did you miss the part where we’re both grown men?”

“Did _you_ miss the part where we’re supposed to be having fun? Or where everyone else is doing it?”

“Because I’m very big on doing things because everyone else is going them,” Arthur says, but he already knows he’ll let Eames have his way. He and Eames moved into their first apartment four weeks ago and he’s still high on domestic bliss.

He lets Eames cajole him a little longer before sighing and making a show of giving in.

“Fine. If it’ll shut you up.”

“Oh, it will. It’ll shut me up so much that you won’t recognise me.” Eames’s grin is wide and bright, and the pure joy in it touches Arthur. Too often Eames’s smiles are guarded or so enmeshed with fake sentiment that it’s hard to tell how he really feels. A real smile is a precious gift.

He leans in to kiss Eames, who dips his tongue into Arthur’s mouth. He tastes of wine, of cloves and orange, and Arthur leans further into the kiss, his free hand cupping the back of Eames’s neck, fingers tangling in his scarf. He loses himself in the kiss until something barrels into the back of his legs.

Jerking back, Arthur looks down and sees a small girl with her face buried in cotton candy. She’s looking up at them with big, solemn eyes. Her mom hurriedly apologises, grasping the girl’s hand and pulling her away.

Arthur turns back to Eames and sees that he’s still smiling. It’s softer now but every bit as honest and it makes something tug in Arthur’s chest.

“Come on,” Arthur says, draining his mug of wine, not entirely comfortable with how vulnerable Eames’s smiles make him feel. “Carousel.”

Eames’s smile snaps into the kind of grin worn by an excited little kid in a Christmas commercial and he grabs Arthur’s hand.

The carousel is a whirl of colours and laughter as they join the queue that snakes around it.

“I want to ride that gold one,” Eames says as the ride comes to a stop. He’s pointing at the gaudiest horse on the whole carousel, its flank a mess of patterns and flowers and gems. Thankfully there’s a sedate black and silver one by its side that’s as perfect for Arthur as the gold one is for Eames.

They hand over the money and clamber on. Eames reaches over and grabs Arthur’s hand. The carousel starts to move and it’s fast, faster than Arthur expected. He tries to pull his hand away from Eames’s so that he can hold on properly but Eames doesn’t let go.

“Come on, love, you’ve faced hardier challenges than a carousel before.”

“If I fall off you’re looking after me and my broken arm.”

“Deal.”

Eames giggles and it’s infectious; Arthur starts to laugh too. It _is_ funny, after all: two deadly, infamous dream criminals holding hands on a carousel. Who would have thought it?

Ariadne, Arthur’s mind provides. Ariadne’s probably thought of this.

When she heard that he and Eames would be moving in together at the end of November she made them an advent calendar as a moving-in gift. She’d obviously spent days imagining ways that they’ll turn sappy, for behind each door is a stupidly cute drawing of them cooking or flower-arranging or putting together flat-pack furniture.

Which, apart from the flower arranging, is pretty much how things have been. It’s just so _domestic_ , not the sort of thing that Arthur ever thought he’d enjoy, but he’s found that he feels deeply content. When he’s in the apartment with Eames he feels a sense of _home_ that he’s not had since he was a kid. Having Eames by his side when they wake up every morning, having coffee on their balcony or staying in bed all day to fuck and doze and have massages… Domesticity is everything Arthur never knew he always wanted.

The carousel comes to a stop and they slide off the horses, pausing to let the little kids barrel past them to the exit.

“Another mulled wine and then home,” Eames says decisively and Arthur doesn’t bother to argue. He just slides his gloved hand into Eames’s and lets him lead the way. “And when we get home,” Eames continues, “We’re going straight to bed.” He gives Arthur a suggestive leer and Arthur smiles and nods.

“Yeah, I’m tired too. Let’s have an early night.”

Eames opens his mouth to explain that no, that’s not what he meant, when he sees the smile on Arthur’s face. “Oh Arthur, you are a bastard sometimes.”

“I try.”

As well as the mulled wine, Eames gets them both a chocolate covered banana and insists on eating his suggestively. Feeling loose and easy, Arthur laughs at him and steps closer so that he can feel Eames’s body heat. He leans in to sneak a kiss and the instant their lips touch snow starts to flurry around them.

They jerk back, startled by the change in weather, and they both reach for their totems.

“Not a dream,” Eames says. “Looks like this rom-com set up is real.”

Arthur glances up at the thick, swirling snow. “Who would have thought that the rom-com lifestyle would be so cold and wet?”

Eames chuckles and kisses a snowflake that’s landed on Arthur’s nose.

“Shall we head home where it’s nice and warm? Snuggle up on the sofa and watch Steven Seagal movies?”

“Now that sounds like my kind of romantic evening.”

They head out of the market and step into the street where the Christmas lights twinkle prettily. Their apartment’s only a few blocks away and they walk hand-in-hand, talking about their plans for the holidays.

They’re going over to Chicago on Wednesday to spend a few days of Hanukkah spoiling Arthur’s niece and nephew rotten. After that they’re going to see Eames’s brother in Melbourne for a very sunny New Year’s. Other than that the plan is to spend their first holiday season together, just the two of them - mostly in bed if Arthur has his way.

“We should go and see Dom at some point,” Arthur says and ignores the face Eames makes. “Philippa and James will be happy to see you.”

“Instead of saying we’re going to see Cobb, how about we just say we’re going to see the kids? He’s just an unpleasant side-effect.”

Arthur chuckles. “And Yusuf and Ariadne. Maybe spend some of January in Mombasa, where it’s warm.”

“You don’t have any jobs already lined up?” Eames peers curiously at Arthur. “I thought for sure you’d be itching to get back to work.”

“Not for a month or so,” Arthur says, shrugging. “Even I need a holiday.”

“Really? What a surprise.”

Arthur might take more offence if Eames hadn't already been working, making forged passports and visas while Arthur organised their films and books.

Their apartment building has an old fashioned elevator complete with pull-to doors. It’s a little rickety and Arthur loves it, loves the history of the place. Eames chuckled at that, charmed by Arthur’s quaint ideas about what constitutes _historic._ Patronising bastard.

Eames holds the door open for him with a bow and Arthur smiles; it’s not often that Eames is chivalrous but when he is Arthur recognises the sincerity under the swagger. Their apartment is on the top floor and there’s a sprig of mistletoe pinned to the doorframe. It means that Eames gets to kiss Arthur every time they enter and while Arthur usually rolls his eyes, tonight the wine and the snow have cast a spell on him and he’s the one to lean in for a kiss. It’s more than worth it for the delighted smile Eames gives him.

Their soaked outer garments are hung on the drying rack and Arthur goes into the bathroom to towel off his hair. He’s not expecting Eames to join him, to put an arm around his waist and direct him so that they’re looking in the mirror. Both of them are bedraggled, their hair dripping into their eyes and their sweaters damp where the snow soaked their coats through. Even so they look good together. Arthur leans his cheek against Eames’s and smiles, looking into Eames’s reflected eyes.

“Let’s have a bath,” Eames says and Arthur’s reflection raises an eyebrow. “Warm up a bit.”

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you go get us some dry clothes and a glass of wine,” Eames suggests as he turns on the taps.

Nodding, Arthur heads to the bedroom first for warm sweaters and jeans, then to the kitchen. He finds a bottle of mulled wine from their last trip to Berlin and pours it into mugs to heat in the microwave.

By the time Arthur makes his way back to Eames the bath is almost full and surrounded by a battalion of candles. Jasmine hangs in the air and the candlelight casts deep shadows on Eames’s face, making his rakish smile even sexier than it already is.

Once the mugs are safely by the side of the bath Eames pulls Arthur into a kiss, undressing him as their lips slide together. Once Arthur’s naked Eames guides him to the bath. Arthur sinks in and sighs at how good the hot water feels, bringing life back into his cold toes and fingers.

Eames starts to strip, slow and teasing. Arthur watches, enjoying the way the candlelight brings his muscles into sharp relief. When the jeans and boxers come off Eames is revealed to be half-hard and Arthur is too: Eames knows how to put on a show.

When both of them are in the water Eames presses up close to Arthur and kisses him, their dicks bumping together. It makes Arthur shiver and Eames rubs up against him.

“Not in the bath, Eames,” Arthur says. “Later.”

Eames sighs but lets Arthur position him how he wants him, elbows propped on the one part of the bath that isn’t festooned with candles. Arthur settles back against him and relaxes, breathing in the jasmine.

By the time the water starts to cool the bath has done its job. Arthur is warm and happy and relaxed, and he laughs as Eames insists on drying him.

When they’re both dry Arthur drapes the towels over the rack and then jerks upright when Eames presses close against him and Arthur can feel Eames’s cock, half-hard, pressed against his ass.

“You said not in the bath,” Eames purrs, a hand wrapping around Arthur’s dick and stroking him gently. “We’re not in the bath now.”

“Mm,” Arthur says by way of agreement, putting his hands on the condensation-damp wall for support. Eames kisses and nibbles at the back of his neck and Arthur’s eyes close as he sinks into the feeling. Eames slips his dick between Arthur’s thighs, thrusting into the tight space between them as he continues to jerk Arthur off. The way that Eames’s dick brushes against Arthur’s balls with every thrust is different but pleasant and his hands curl into fists against the wall.

It’s good but it’s not enough, Arthur wants more, he wants Eames inside him.

“C’mon, Eames,” Arthur says and his voice comes out husky. He reaches for the medicine cabinet and manages to snag the spare bottle of lube with his fingertips.

“Want something, do you?” As a contrast to Arthur’s sandpaper-roughness, Eames’s voice is deep and smooth and a shiver snakes down Arthur’s spine.

“I want your goddamn cock in my ass, get the hell on with it.”

“You know I like it when you order me about, Arthur,” Eames chuckles and takes the lube from him. He stops thrusting between Arthur’s thighs and Arthur finds himself missing the feel of it until Eames slides two slick fingers into him.

Arthur groans at the feeling of Eames stretching him, fucking into him. Another finger and the stretch is a delicious burn, a promise of things to come. More often than not Arthur likes to be on top but sometimes the need to be fucked rages in him like a fever – he’ll look at Eames and feel a stab of want, deep in his gut. He feels that now.

“You’re so ready for me,” Eames whispers in Arthur’s ear, and when he curls a finger against Arthur’s prostate he yelps, jerking forwards.

“In me,” Arthur murmurs, pushing his hips back to get Eames’s fingers deeper inside him.

There are slick, wet sounds as Eames lubes himself up and Arthur bites his lip, flexing his fingers impatiently.

When he feels Eames pressing against him he draws in a breath that turns into a whine when Eames pushes in. That first push, it’s always a heady mix of pleasure and pain, like the burn of a whiskey shot. Eames wraps a hand around both of Arthur’s wrists, pinning them above his head, and the other arm goes around his waist to hold Arthur still.

Eames’s body weight pushes Arthur forward so that his dick is pressed between the wall and his body. With every thrust Arthur’s dick rubs against the slick wall, a strange sensation but not unpleasant. His concentration is caught between that and Eames fucking into him hard, whispering delicious filthy words into his hair.

Arthur’s thoughts stumble, jumble, and break into meaninglessness as Eames hammers into him. Eames’s words fragment as he gets closer to the edge, and Arthur whimpers against the wall, overcome by how _good_ everything feels.

With a cry, Eames’s hips jerk forward as he comes, crushing Arthur against the wall, barely supporting his own weight. The hand around Arthur’s wrists slides away and Arthur drops his hand to jerk himself off, and in four strokes he’s coming against the wall. Both of them slide to the floor in an untidy pile of limbs.

They lean against one another, propping each other up as they relearn how to breathe. Eames reaches for Arthur’s hands, entwines their fingers and smiles at Arthur.

They kiss, gentle and exhausted. Arthur sighs, almost a purr, against Eames’s lips.

Eventually they have to move and Eames decides to act like a gentleman and clean Arthur up, which is only fair really since it's Eames's come dripping out of him. A towel, still warm from the rack, is put on the floor to lie on and Arthur slides forward, burying his fingers in the thick cloth as Eames cleans him tenderly.

The clean-up becomes a massage and Arthur looks up over his shoulder to smile at Eames. This might be their sappiest, most domestic day to date and it’s been wonderful. Not something that he wants anyone else to know, but it being a secret between them makes it even more special.

Taking his hand, Eames pulls him to his feet and helps him into some clothes - just the briefs and the sweater, which Arthur doesn’t mind at all: Eames has _very_ nice legs.

They go into the living room. Eames pushes Arthur down to the sofa with a kiss and goes to get more wine while Arthur chooses a DVD.

With _Under Seige_ in the player and the non-denominational tree lights twinkling, Arthur snuggles under the blanket on the couch and then hears Eames laughing. Curiosity gets the better of Arthur and he goes to see what’s so amusing.

Eames is in the kitchen, the wine on the sideboard. He’s standing in front of Ariadne’s advent calendar. When he sees Arthur come into the kitchen he waves him over.

“Look,” he says. “Either that girl knows us far too well or she’s some kind of psychic.”

Beneath the newly-opened door for today, two tiny cute versions of themselves are sharing a candlelit bath and Arthur laughs too. Ariadne really _does_ know them too well.

“We can never tell her how close this damn thing keeps getting to the mark,” Arthur says, feeling vaguely embarrassed at how well she sees through their work personas.

“Agreed.”

They head back to the living room with their wine and settle on the sofa, pulling the blanket over them. Eames nods his approval at Arthur’s choice of film.

“See, we’re not completely declawed,” he says. “We’re watching a Seagal film. There’s not much that’s more macho than that, right?”

Arthur sniggers. “Exactly.”

As the film starts, Arthur snuggles up against Eames and thinks that while he would like the rest of the world to continue thinking that he and Eames are sharp and dangerous and deadly, he’d like more days like this too.

**Author's Note:**

> For [Dream Holiday](http://dream-holiday.livejournal.com/) over on Livejournal. The story is for _la_belle_fille <3


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